


just a notch in your bedpost (but you’re just a line in a song)

by couriersexy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Basically, M/M, Modern AU, Reincarnation AU, SO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22300984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couriersexy/pseuds/couriersexy
Summary: At age 12 Jaskier picks up a guitar and strums it for the first time.At age 25 he wonders why the strings felt so familiar to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 325





	just a notch in your bedpost (but you’re just a line in a song)

**Author's Note:**

> i may not show it 💯 but i have geraskier brain rot 
> 
> anyhow — i’ve truly been meaning to write this out for a while now and just never got around to it. i’m an unbelievable sucker for reincarnation tropes (and thus... the cursed evangelion days) 
> 
> well, either way! kudos and comments are appreciated! trying to get better at tagging these as well ♡

When Jaskier is twenty eight he starts forming the singing career he’s always wanted. For now he’s just singing in whatever bar he can earn tips at, but he’s sure that soon enough it will bloom into something more tangible. It almost feels preordained, like something within him was always meant to do this. 

(one could almost call it destiny.) 

Tonight, though, he’s performing at the bar Zoltan just inherited from one of the people who owed him some favor. Jaskier knew the details once, but has since forgotten in favor of chords, lyrics, poems, sheet music, you know, the essentials.

For the past few years he’s been attempting to flesh out a specific song, something about a hero and his traveling companion? But every great hero has to have a name, and none of the one’s he’s come up with thus far have felt truly deserving of the song. It’s meant to be a —

( — masterpiece, one that tells a tale of a steadfast companion and a heroic outcast )

— a really catchy one. 

Regardless of Jaskier’s seemingly never ending writers block, the show that night goes eerily well. He’s never felt more at home than on this bar’s stage. 

If he could make a dramatic exit out of the back door now without getting caught by the 6’10” intimidating man in the back row who is absolutely here because he’s gotten in trouble yet again with his unbreakable womanizing habits. He should really stop doing this but, oh, the heart wants what the heart wants, and the heart wanted that fiery red haired femme fatale.

He swings the door open, loud enough almost to the point it is horrific, and starts his way down the badly lit alley before he collides with someone’s back.

“A — Ah! Ah! I’m so sorry, sir, this must be a misunderstanding, I’ve never so much as held hands with her, and I’d surely never have sex with someone that’s in a relationship... if you’d just let m—“ 

And he’s realized by this point in his rambling that this is not the man from the bar. This is a (somehow) even taller man. Who is brooding. In an alley. At midnight. 

The stranger offers a rough growl of “Hmm.” before turning back around. Very eloquent, Jaskier thinks.

“You know, I love how you just stand out here and brood.” He says as he moves to stand directly beside the man. Jaskier has a drifting thought that he should perhaps be afraid of the stranger, but there’s an odd air of safety that accompanies this conversation. And Jaskier’s gut has never been wrong, so he stays a while.

The stranger turns to look down for a moment before asking, “Was that you in the bar singing?” 

( the only one who didn’t have any rude comments to make on his song — )

“Oh, well, yes! My friend owns the place and asked for me to do an act for the opening night under new management. The beer’s awful, but if you want decent company, Zoltan makes for a great conversationalist.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier thinks the conversation ends here, and props himself against the brick wall of the neighboring building to stare at traffic. 

Tonight is full of surprises however, and the stranger turns once more to him and offers a low, “Just sounded familiar. ‘Your song?” 

“Yes, it was. Do you... listen to music outside bars often? Could’ve heard me somewhere else if so,” Jaskier chuckles toward the end. The rhythm of the conversation feels somehow nostalgic, in the same way his song about a hero does. He can’t place it though.

“Hmm. Can’t say I do, no. I’m here to wait for a friend. Said she had something for me to do and that we’d meet here, but I’m starting to think she was too busy again.” Tall, dark, and handsome gives something akin to a laugh about this. As if he’s sharing some inside joke with Jaskier that only they understand.

And, oddly enough, Jaskier finds himself snorting inwardly too. 

“Well, I’m sure the mystery girl meant well enough. By the way, do you have a name?” He figures the segue was smooth enough.

( all good heroes have a name, after all. )

“Geralt. You got one?”

“Jaskier. I feel like I’ve —“

“Heard that name before.” They end up saying simultaneously.

“Which is odd,” Jaskier continues, “Because we’ve never met. And I don’t know anyone named Geralt.” 

“Hmm. Can’t say I know any Jaskiers.” 

They mostly stand together in silence for the next few minutes, which pass as slowly as a few centuries for Jaskier. He suddenly feels much older than he really is. 

( which is when it starts coming back. )

Jaskier suddenly remembers something. Something from what could only be another lifetime.

A tavern. A witcher. Some brief mumblings in crowds about a butcher, a murderer, a monster. And he, the bard, the steadfast companion, is not afraid. 

He remembers a sorceress, a powerful woman whom captured the attention of everyone around her. Someone that could have tore the heavens apart if she so wished. 

He remembers a trobaritz, a talented girl who kept him company on his loneliest nights. One of the four people he confided in about his truest feelings. One of the only people who truly understood him.

He remembers a dwarf, a short man who brandished an axe and drank himself into madness right by his side. Jaskier thought he was one of the bravest people he’d ever met. Swore to never forget him. 

He remembers a girl, an echo of legends past. Snow white hair, wielding a sword. The girl who was never truly meant to become a witcher, but would go down in history as one anyway.

He, more clearly, remembers a witcher. Called a mutant, and yet Jaskier only ever managed to view him as something amazing. The bravest person he ever met, resembling his daughter in almost all ways. Broody. Poetically speaking, a love that was not meant to bloom in their lives. 

( he abruptly remembers that he is in the present. having a conversation. )

“Hm? Ah, sorry I zoned out there. Were you saying something?” But Geralt is now looking at him with so much familiarity it almost hurts, plucks at his feelings as if they’d never been forgotten. There’s an echo of longing before everything falls into place and they both reach out their hands at once.

Or, well, it starts out as holding hands, but Jaskier is nothing if not a romantic, and so it delves into an embrace soon thereafter. 

Almost as soon as it begins, though, Jaskier abruptly leans back with an indignant, “You’re the reason I was never able to finish that cursed song! I had everything planned out for it too, must you ruin everything?” 

And Geralt laughs, genuinely laughs, not like the small one from earlier, either. Which is enough to make up for his lost ideas, now replaced with the genuine stories.

The moment runs it course and then Geralt is leaning down and whispering a question about going somewhere else and Jaskier doubts he has ever felt more excited to leave a performance.

——————-

Despite Jaksier’s initial assumption they did not, in fact, go to anyone’s house, but rather a very quiet hill. 

“Geralt, old friend, I have to ask — does the car have a name?” He receives naught but a deadpan stare in response and decides against asking if he has a horse, so he sits down next to his companion.

“Jaskier.”

“Hm?” He quirks a brow in response.

“Do you...,” he hesitates for a moment, and it seems no matter how much time passes it’s merely not in Geralt’s genes to be well versed in words, “... feel the same?” 

For a moment he feels some sense of juvenile fear, because Geralt would not have known how he felt. He wasn’t supposed to, at least, but Zoltan knew. And Priscilla did. Yen may have as well, actually. 

The shock must show on his face because Geralt echoes the sentence with another “Hmm.” More withdrawn, though. 

“Well,” Jaskier starts, “I must say, Geralt. If this is your idea of a first date it is remarkably impressive and I can’t help but find myself becoming the damsel in distress again.”

His point slides across well enough, because Geralt shows a little shocked expression before pulling Jaskier directly into his side again. It mirrors something from long ago on a cabaret’s balcony. 

Jaskier sinks into it easy enough before he starts rambling something about what he’s been doing lately, truthfully the words start to blend together even to him, and his eyelids start to droop almost immediately after the realization of how tired he is. 

Geralt looks down and ushers Jaskier into a standing position and they make their way to the car, then to Geralt’s place, and both fall into the easy rhythm of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot shut up about the rosemary and thyme i cannot do it you will have to pry it out of my dead hands


End file.
